


How to Make Things Not-Awkward

by tamerofdarkstars



Category: Leverage
Genre: Eliot Spencer Is Attractive, Hardison POV, Hardison speaks before he thinks, M/M, Not really though, occasionally, or all the time, someone please just high-five the man, vague casefic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-18
Updated: 2014-12-18
Packaged: 2018-03-01 23:47:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,648
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2792117
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tamerofdarkstars/pseuds/tamerofdarkstars
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>How to Make Things Not-Awkward: An (Abbreviated) Field Guide by Alec Hardison</p><p>Step 1: Compliment your best friend in the most uncomfortable way possible.<br/>Step 2: Don't apologize or take it back - lying is wrong.<br/>Step 3: ???<br/>Step 4: Profit.</p>
            </blockquote>





	How to Make Things Not-Awkward

**Author's Note:**

> HOW AM I JUST DISCOVERING THIS SHOW NOW??? I'm mid-season four and my final exams have suffered for it, but I somehow can't bring myself to care. God bless this show and its actors and characters and tongue-in-cheek con-based plotline - it's everything I've ever wanted and then some.

It just kind of… slips out. Honestly. It isn’t his fault, ok, it absolutely isn’t. How is anyone, and he means _anyone_ , supposed to resist this? Hardison is a red-blooded male with a perfectly normal, healthy sex drive, and the dude walks around with nothing but bulging muscles and tight black t-shirts and these little beanie hats, ok, something had to give.

As it is, the whole operation goes belly-up within minutes, and Hardison is dressed far too nicely to be racing through underground tunnels. He is wearing _cufflinks_ for crying out loud.

“Move, Hardison, move move _move_!” Eliot’s voice is a growl, a firm hand flat in his back as he shoves Hardison in front of him.

But then, that’s nothing compared to the gun-toting shoot-first-and-never-ask-questions Armenians about ten seconds behind them, so hey, Eliot says run, Hardison is gonna fucking run.

They aren’t expecting the third guy waiting for them around the corner, all tattoos and angry spitting, and he hits Hardison so hard he’s pretty sure he sees cartoon birdies tweeting his name.

He goes flying into the wall, and before he’s hit the ground he sees Eliot lunge for the guy, catching him in the neck and sending him spinning to the floor.

Hardison shoves himself up on an elbow – yeah, his suit’s definitely ruined – and watches Eliot get in the zone. Their hitter goes into stance, barely, sliding one foot behind another. The guy who hit Hardison is out cold on the ground, blood smeared on his forehead, and the Armenians are slowing down, barking orders too fast for Hardison to catch.

Eliot seems to understand though, and his eyes flick to Hardison and away again, back to the threat.

Hardison gets it – he might not speak the language, but he’s seen enough movies to know _kill the spare_ when he hears it. He doesn’t move, though, tries to not even breathe so Eliot can do his job.

The Armenians get closer, snapping at Eliot, who flicks his hair out of his eyes, looking decidedly unimpressed with both them and their rapid-fire machine guns.

Hardison waits.

It’s nearly a blur, movement too fast for the eye to catch each individual motion. Eliot disarms one of the Armenians before the man even realizes what’s happened. His buddy brings the gun up ages too slow, and Eliot’s got him on the ground and unconscious before Hardison’s exhaled.

Eliot is only barely out of breath, hair stuck to his sweaty forehead. He flicks his hair, frowning when it doesn’t move, and reaches up to smooth it back out of his face with both hands.

Now, Hardison’s always had a problem with his mouth running too fast – his nana always told him, she’d say “Alec, that mouth of yours is gonna get you into trouble someday. Now siddown and eat your supper.”

In that tone too. Sweet old gal.

But his mouth has always run before his brain’s had a chance to catch up, despite Nana’s warnings, and so he sits there, slumped against the wall, his chest and back and left shoulder aching, and he opens his damn mouth.

“Eliot, man, I swear, ok, that’s the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen.”

The moment the words are out of his mouth, he wants to snatch them back, because seriously, not cool, Alec, not cool at all, but Eliot’s eyes have gone wide and surprised and there’s a moment, brief but endless, where they do nothing but look at each other. Hardison’s mouth goes dry as the desert in July because Eliot is _staring_ at him like he’s never seen him before and Hardison doesn’t know what to do with that information. Then the corner of Eliot’s mouth twitches in that smile, that little awkward smile he sometimes shoots Sophie or Parker when they’ve said something particularly endearing. The same smile he gave Nate when their fearless leader held out a frickin’ samurai sword to the hitter on Christmas Eve.

Hardison swears his heart stops beating.

“Uh.” He says, but then Nate is talking, loudly and rapidly in one of his mark voices, the voice of the slimy lawyer (which, by the way, ranks number three on Hardison’s list of top five creepiest voices), and all of a sudden the con is back on. Eliot tears his eyes away and Hardison scrambles to his feet and they race down the tunnel together, dodging unconscious Armenian hit squad gunmen, and seriously, how is this his life?

Eliot takes out another two thugs standing between them and the bank of computers that Hardison needs to legitimize Sophie’s new character, and Hardison absolutely does not look at Eliot’s muscles or his hair or the look he tosses over his shoulder as Hardison slides past him because Alec Hardison’s fingers are splayed across the keyboard again and he is in the _zone_ , baby.

Sophie’s website goes up just in time for the mark to Google her, and Eliot sinks into the chair next to him as Nate and Sophie spin their web.

Hardison’s finger goes to his ear as he types with his other hand. “Parker, you in?”

There’s a pause and her voice breaks cheerfully over the coms. From the echo, it sounds like she’s in a duct or an elevator shaft of some kind. It takes Hardison milliseconds to ping her location aaaaand he’s right, bingo, she’s somehow suspended in mid-air over the northwest bank of elevators. Crazy, psycho angel girl, she is.

He leans back in his chair and listens to Sophie spin her magic and glances over at Eliot with a grin. Age of the Geek, baby, it’s on the tip of his tongue, but Eliot’s staring at him again and he feels his grin slip. “What?” He asks.

Eliot drags a hand over his face and suddenly it hits Hardison that he looks uncomfortable. Awkward, almost. Hardison has made his best friend feel uncomfortable and nope, uh-uh, that’s not gonna fly, not in this house. “Eliot—” He begins, then stops. There is no way in hell to make this not-awkward, because frankly, it’s not his fault Eliot’s fluid efficiency gets him hot under the collar and he’s not gonna _lie_ to the man, ok, because that’s not how you build friendships.

Eliot doesn’t say anything, apparently losing his motivation for speaking, and Nate’s voice comes through, hinting very loudly at something Hardison’s supposed to be doing with the keyboard. Parker is singing softly to herself in the background and Hardison rolls his eyes because Nate is asking him to do things that are literally impossible for anyone other than Hardison but in the space of his eye roll, he’s already halfway done.

“Damn it, Hardison.”

Hardison looks up at Eliot’s huffed curse, glancing at him without pausing his typing. Hey, who needs to look at the screen during a heist? Not one Alec Hardison, hacker extraordinaire, that’s for damn sure, can he _get_ a hell yeah and a high-five?

No?

That’s cool, no, it’s cool, he can high-five himself later. No, ok, you know what, don’t even worry, you just sit there and keep reading.  Don’t try and participate in the story in any way. It’s cool.

Eliot wiggles his own fingers at him like he’s casting magic or something and then folds his arms and looks away. “Fingers, man.” He grunts and Hardison raises an eyebrow.

“Uh, did you get hit?” He asks, lifting his hands off the keyboard and motioning at his head. “Like, the Armenians, man, they didn’t getcha? ‘Cause you’re actin’ kinda like they gotcha.”

“Nah.” Eliot shakes his head, smirking. “Amateurs. How’s your, uh…” He motions at Hardison and he shrugs.

“I’ll be fine.”

And it’s true, he will be fine, but Eliot’s looking at his fingers again with that same weird-ass look, and Hardison tears his mind back to the job at hand only to realize he’s accidentally typed up an extremely extensive bio for Sophie that has meandered into her fake childhood. Oops. He backspaces ninety percent of it and refreshes the webpage.

Perfect – hell, he might even believe it, if he hadn’t written it. This had to be quick, too, so there’s a part of her web-bio that may sound vaguely like the plot Wrath of Kahn, but hey, ok, Hardison did his job and their mark is hooked nine ways to Sunday. It’s a slam-dunk from here on out.

There’s a thunk from outside the little room, and Eliot is out of his chair before Hardison can fully twist around. Seriously, the man’s like a jungle cat.

“Be right back.” He grunts, and Hardison turns back to the screen, listening. A few gasps and wheezes and thuds and groans (and something that sounded suspiciously like Colonel Mustard in the library with an AK-47) later and Eliot’s dropped back into the seat next to Hardison, hand to his ear.

“Nate.” He says, and Hardison gets some really weird reverb in the coms – he’s gonna need to fix that. “They’re sendin’ more guys. Watch yourselves. Look for the black suits with the weird-looking—”

_“Ah, yeah, uh-huh, I got you, yep, I mean, how can I not get you, I’m looking right at you— ow, can you maybe not poke me with that?”_

“Shit.” Eliot breathes and he’s gone again, the door banging shut behind him. Hardison catches a glimpse of another unconscious gunman on the floor outside the door and looks quickly away, because mm-mm, nope, he is not even going there.

Eliot is breathing heavily in his ear and Sophie is talking, her voice pitched in that slightly-panicked way it gets only when Nate is in serious trouble, and Hardison needs Parker to make the switch and get out of there _now_.

He cracks his knuckles.

“Parker, ok, listen up, there’s a ventilation shaft three feet down behind you…”

-

Yeah, somehow they pull it off _again_. You know why? Because they’re the _best_ , baby, they are the _best_ , come on, up top, right here.

Come on, don’t leave him hangin’ here.

No? Seriously?

Never mind, just forget it. Ungrateful, ok. All y’all are _ungrateful_.

Hardison has a soda in hand and is reclining on Nate’s couch, his feet up on the coffee table specifically where Nate’s told him not to put his feet, building Eliot an alias in the early morning post-victory silence.

Nate and Sophie are down in the bar, drinking or kissing or jamming about feelings or whatever it is they do down there, ok, Hardison stopped asking a long time ago. Parker is asleep, for once, curled up in the recliner feet from him. Every time she breathes out, her hair flutters around her nose. It is quite possibly the single most adorable thing Hardison has ever seen in his entire life.

Eliot makes his way around the table and flops down onto the couch next to him. He’s too close for his personal space invasion to be an accident, but he’s not actually touching Hardison, so it’s hard to tell. Hardison lets it go and swigs another swig of orangey goodness.

“Sup, man?” He says, quietly, and puts down the soda. Eliot shrugs, putting his feet up on the table too. What Nate doesn’t know, right?

Hardison turns his laptop. “Check it out.”

Eliot grins. “Hey, it’s me.”

“No, sir. That is Dr. Rufus Kincaid.” Hardison grins back, turns the laptop back around and keeps typing. “Archeologist, just spent two years in South America lookin’ at old Inca relics. You got two sisters and an ex with a restraining order – apparently, you’re irresistible. You don’t like Facebook, but hell, man, you gotta get off Twitter, ok, ‘cause ain’t no one reading your tweets about dirt except your mom and even she’s bored.”

Eliot leans against him, skimming the bio, and suddenly it’s a billion degrees in Nate’s living room and Hardison’s tongue is sitting heavy and clumsy in his mouth. Eliot smells like he’s just showered, soap and not-sweat, and Hardison can’t stop thinking the tunnels, and Eliot saving his ass again, and Hardison going and opening his big fat dumbass mouth about it.

“Uh, hey, Eliot…” He begins, wondering exactly how to go about saying this, but Eliot is suddenly talking over him.

“How’d you learn to type so fast?” He asks, stealing Hardison’s soda and taking a drink. Hardison watches his throat work as he swallows and doesn’t even protest the flagrant and frankly offensive theft of soda.

“Uh, hello? Hacker? Do you not know what I do here? Are—are you still confused?” Hardison is mostly joking, laying on the fake-offended pretty thick. Eliot rolls his eyes at him and Hardison shrugs. “Dunno, man, picked it up pretty young. I liked it, so I kept at it. Computers made sense when a lot of other shit didn’t.”

“Hm.” Eliot looks away, towards the window, and Hardison goes back to his typing. He’s got a few more months of tweets to fake for Dr. Kincaid, when Eliot takes a breath. “’S impressive. I guess.” He mumbles, and Hardison’s fingers pause on the keys halfway through the word _sedimentary_.

“What is?”

Eliot wiggles his fingers at him again, looking like he’d dearly like to be elsewhere, and suddenly, in a lightning bolt of understanding shot through his brain by what had to be the goddess of understanding herself, Hardison actually gets what Eliot’s trying to say.

“You—You like when I type all fast.” He says, practically in awe, and Eliot’s head snaps away so fast Hardison’s frankly surprised his neck doesn’t crick. “You think it’s _impressive_.”

“Shut up, Hardison.” Eliot grumbles, but Hardison is grinning so widely he thinks his face might be stuck like that forever.

“Hey man, don’t be like that! Even I get impressed with my genius time to time.” Hardison chuckles. His chest is tight and warm, and he can’t wipe the shit-eating grin from his face. Eliot keeps his badass face on for about five more seconds before it melts away into the little grin again, and Hardison finds it suddenly hard to breathe.

Damn it, ok, Eliot Spencer is a badass killing _machine_. He is in _no_ way adorable.

“Just—take the damn compliment, Hardison.” Eliot pushes up off the couch and Hardison frantically tries to come up with a way to make him stay. But there’s nothing short of _don’t leave_ that’s coming to mind and Eliot stalks around the end of the couch and out of sight, footsteps fading into the kitchen.

Hardison slumps back into the couch cushions and glowers at his laptop screen.

“Yeah, well, that’s why I’m the hacker, man, and you hit stuff. I can type without misspelling words, you can hit stuff without breaking your hands.” Hardison tells the Eliot-not-Eliot picture on his laptop. “Lookin’ damn sexy doin’ it too.” He mutters, right-clicking on the picture with a little more force than necessary. He’s going to try Rufus Kincaid with glasses, he thinks. More archeologist-y.

Then, there’s a hand tight on his shoulder and warm breath on his neck, and a voice growls in his ear –

“Call me sexy one more time, Hardison, and I’m gonna have to find out what else your fingers are good at.”

Hardison chokes on his air (and thanks the good Lord he hadn’t been drinking soda) but Eliot’s already halfway out the door, the resulting slam enough to jolt Parker out of her nap.

“Huh?” She blinks and looks around. “What’d I miss?”

Hardison stares at his laptop, then down at his hands, his fingers in particular, and then up at the door Eliot had slammed.

“Uh, nothing. You know what? I’ll, uh, you know what, I’mma be right back.” Hardison shuts his laptop and scrambles off the couch, grabbing his jacket from where he’d tossed it hours earlier.

“Hey, yo, Eliot, man, wait up! What, uh, what kind of things you thinkin’? Eliot!”

 


End file.
